


The Painted Horse

by taoroo



Series: The Bonds of Brotherhood [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is terrible at practical jokes, Athos is unamused, Corporal Punishment, Flogging, Our boys are idiots, Plenty of guilt and forgiveness, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 19:38:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13981926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/taoroo
Summary: Aramis and Porthos make a new friend. Set several years before the series.





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t like him.”

Porthos chuckled over the lip of his flagon. “You’ve just met him, ‘mis.”

From across the tavern table Aramis waved his hand as if to suggest this fact was inconsequential. “He is rude and arrogant.”

Porthos’ wry smile implied strongly that it took one to know one, and that if any man of the Musketeers gave off an air of arrogance it was his closest friend. He said nothing, however, knowing it would only stoke the man’s finely simmering temper.

“He thinks he’s better than us,” Aramis added.

“He _is_ better than us, ‘mis,” Porthos pointed out. “When it comes to the sword anyhow.”

“Well he doesn’t have to walk around like he owns the place,” Aramis said sourly. He didn’t contest Porthos’ statement. The wretched man _was_ better than any of the regiment when it came to the sword.

“You can still outshoot him,” Porthos said placatingly. Aramis preened. Sadly, it wasn’t enough to distract his train of thought.

“It's clear he's some kind of aristocrat. Probably a bastard from some disgraced house," he said snidely, taking another pull of his wine. "He comes late to muster, ignores us during our duties, and disappears at day’s end without a word, and now Treville has stuck us with him for a whole lousy week. I don’t like him.”

“Think of it this way, mate,” Porthos said. “We might be stuck with him the whole week, but he’s also stuck with _us_.”

Aramis paused, fixing his friend with a look first of confusion and then dawning, sinister, glee. By the time they had returned from their mission he was quite sure Olivier Athos would not be troubling them again.

oOo

The road east of Paris was dry, the dirt baked by the summer heat. The horses and carriages sent up dust clouds that chocked and blinded them, leaving them filthy within the first hour.

Aramis sat, fairly miserable, riding beside Porthos, with Athos a little further ahead. The dust made speaking a trying experience. Not that their companion was in any way talkative; the man had said barely two words since that morning, and those in a surly grumble. Aramis could not fathom why Treville had put the man in command of this mission, given that he and Porthos had both served longer and had by far the greater experience. It was a simple patrol of the outlying towns after all, nothing overly taxing. His own mood suffered for it, but he held on to the cheerful notion that the arrogant upstart would soon be getting his just desserts.

They stopped that evening at a busy tavern, frequented by many travellers and merchants. It was customary on these missions for the Musketeers to share a room, but it surprised Aramis not a bit when Athos secured a separate room for himself. He bit his tongue, however, fighting back a rather witty and acerbic comment on the matter. His plan depended on maintaining a good rapport with the odious fellow.

After they had attended to their toilette in their rooms – Porthos being the audience for Aramis’s thoughts on the subjects of stuck-up aristocrats and their terrible manners – the three reconvened in the tavern for the evening meal.

Athos ate quickly, replying in short sentences to Aramis’s attempts to draw him into conversation. He did not refuse when Aramis topped up his wine, however. After that it was remarkably easy for Aramis to enact the first step of his plan. Athos had been only briefly reluctant to join the pair in drinks after their meal, but had capitulated after some friendly cajoling.

Aramis wondered if the ache to his jaw from his false smile would be worth it, or the lightness to his purse; it taking rather more drink than he had anticipated before the man slipped into a drunken stupor. He and Porthos staggered up to their rooms later that night, their leader between them, depositing him on the bed to sleep off the formidable quantity of alcohol he had imbibed.

oOo

Aramis awoke at dawn, his head aching and his tongue as dry as the road. Despite this he jumped into action, dressing quickly and making his way to the stables. It didn’t take him long to find what he needed and, sniggering to himself at his own cleverness, retreated back to his rooms to wait for their erstwhile leader to rise.

Athos was in a sorry state when he emerged from the tavern’s rooms later that morning. Aramis and Porthos were sat at a table, finishing a hearty breakfast of sausage and beer.

“Athos, dear boy, care to join us?” Aramis asked. He skewered a sausage on his fork and held it up toward the man.

Athos regarded the fat-dripping meat sickly, but kept his composure as he stiffly, yet politely declined.

“We should be going,” he said, “we’ve already lost enough daylight.”

“An’ whose fault’s that then, eh?” Porthos whispered to Aramis with a nudge and a wink as the pair dutifully followed the man to the stables.

Athos was already preparing his horse when they caught up with him, his movements slow and deliberate in the manner of any trying to ward off the worst of a hangover. His horse, a handsome black gelding, waited patiently as his master strapped his saddle bags to him. Aramis shot Porthos a sly look and then crossed to Athos, giving him a hearty slap on the back.

“What a lovely morning!” he said, his voice nearly a shout. He grinned as Athos flinched, his eyes creasing painfully at the noise. “Why I don’t believe I have had a better breakfast outside of Paris, have you, my dear Porthos?”

“No,” Porthos agreed cheerfully, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “I don’t know how they get them sausages like that, but they were just right. All oozing and dripping fat, and a great big slice of bread to soak it up.”

“I prefer mine with cheese,” Aramis said. He slapped Athos on the back once more. “I’m sure you can appreciate a good cheese, my dear fellow. This one was a credit to its class, ripe as a farm on a summer’s day.”

“Nah, cheese ain’t worth nothin’ if it don’t have them blue bits in it,” Porthos disagreed, coming up to Athos’ other side and punctuating his words with a heavy clap to his free shoulder. “Y’know, all flaky and stinking like a pair of old socks.”

Athos had first gone pale as the two spoke, but his colour was now turning an admirable shade of green. As Porthos finished speaking he mumbled an incoherent pardon and whirled around, hurrying in the direction of the privies.

They waited until he was out of sight before they began to laugh.

“Hurry,” Aramis said, still chuckling. “We don’t have long before he’s back.”

Quickly they ushered Athos’s gelding back into the stables, returning moments later with another, remarkably similar horse.

“Can’t believe your luck, finding one that’s almost the same,” Porthos congratulated.

Aramis gave a conspiratorial wink. “Not quite the same, my dear Porthos. This one has a fine white stripe upon its nose.”

Porthos frowned, not seeing such a mark. On closer inspection of the creature’s nose he saw a grey outline among the hair. Rubbing at it’s edge he inspected his fingers, brows raising at the result.

“Boot black?” he said, mouth splitting into a wicked grin, which Aramis returned.

oOo

Athos sat miserably on his horse. It was now midday and his headache was at its zenith. His empty, churning gut had shown no signs of settling, and his hands shook abominably. He gripped his horse’s reigns tightly and squeezed his eyes tightly closed, willing away the pain. It remained, apparently as stubborn as he was. It would be poor luck to be set on any bandits now; in this state he could no more defend himself than a newborn lamb, and then the mission would be a failure.

As he had done many times the previous day and that morning, Athos slipped a hand into his saddle bag.

Aramis and Porthos were once more riding behind Athos and so were witness to the exact moment when their esteemed leader came into difficulty. It had taken longer than they had expected, likely thanks to the lasting effects of the wine, and they had been on the edge of their saddles in anticipation. Athos stopped his horse, jumping off and rifling in a frenzy through his bags.

“What seems to be the matter, dear fellow?” Aramis asked as he and Porthos pulled up beside him. He fought to keep his voice and expression under control, it would not do to spoil the joke too early.

Athos wrenched the bags from his horse and upended their contents upon the ground. “This isn’t my bag,” he muttered, looking utterly bewildered. It was almost too much for Porthos, who turned his head until his face was under control.

“Not your bag?” Aramis said, keeping his tone light and skeptical. “Why, whose bag but yours could it be, it’s on _your_ horse, after all.”

“But they’re not here…” Athos said, eyes searching desperately amongst the clutter and then to his mount. His face was a picture, but the level of horror in it was starting to make Aramis a little uneasy.

“I never let them out of my sight,” he was muttering, true panic in his eyes. “I checked them this morning, before we set out. How could this happen?”

Porthos and Aramis shared a worried glance, this wasn’t going the way they had expected.

“Er… Athos, dear fellow, what seems to be the trouble?” Aramis asked.

Athos was frowning at the horse now, his eyes narrowed. Then his face drained of all colour. Before they could question him further, Athos had leapt upon the horse, wrenching it about the way they had come and kicking it into a gallop.

Aramis and Porthos spurred their own mounts, Porthos calling out a question to their leader but receiving no reply.

oOo

Athos jumped from his horse the moment they passed under the tavern gates, running the last few steps as he reached the stable doors. He dashed inside, leaving Aramis and Porthos to glance warily to one another. They and their horses were breathing heavily from the gallop, sweat steaming from the horses’ flanks.

Athos appeared at the stable door in the next moment, wild eyed, and urgently accosted the stable hand.

“The black gelding, who took it?” he demanded.

The stablehand, frightened by the intensity of the man’s stare, stumbled over his words as he replied.

“You mean Seigneur Durand’s horse, m’lud? He rode out a few hours past, at a fair pace it was too, him having just got word his lady’s took ill.”

Athos grit his teeth as behind him Porthos gave a groan. “Could you tell me where this Durand lives?”

“Oh, it ain’t too far, m’lud. Take the road toward the next village, you’ll spot the manor on the hill before the day’s out.”

After letting the stable hand about his business with a curt thanks, Athos marched back to the painted horse. His expression was darkly foreboding, but there was also an undercurrent of true fear. Again Aramis and Porthos shared a look of concern; their joke had gone badly wrong somehow but now was obviously not the time to come clean.

Athos made to mount, but paused, hands tightly gripping the saddle. After a moment’s deliberation he swung himself seated, pulling his horse close to the others.

“It seems I have made a grievous error,” he muttered, shamefaced, his words for their ears only. “This is not my horse.”

Aramis bit back laughter, seeing the seriousness of the man’s expression.

“It’s more than that, ain’t it?” Porthos asked for the both of them.

Athos heaved a bitter sigh and shook his head. “We must find that horse,” he said. “The saddlebags contain some vitally important documents, entrusted to me by Treville. The fate of France may be at stake.”

Aramis felt his blood run cold. He cast a mortified glance to Porthos, who returned it grimly.

“Well, let us after it, then,” he said with weak cheer.

Athos hung his head, shame apparent on his usually stoic features. “Yes, I pray my folly hasn’t doomed us all.”

 _Mine too_ , Aramis added to himself with a grimace. He avoided Porthos’s stare, kicking his horse into a swift trot to follow in Athos’s wake.


	2. Chapter 2

“I see the estate,” said Aramis, pointing to a grey blur on the horizon.

The three musketeers and their horses were tired, having ridden hard that full day. Twilight was creeping in, casting long shadows as the sun dipped low.

“We’ll never make it before dark,” Porthos growled.

Athos pointed to a wood, directly between them and their destination, around which the road curved. “If we cut through there we shall save an hour or more,” he said. “We shall have to ride more cautiously, but I don’t think the horses have another run left in them regardless.”

The other two agreed and they turned their horses off the road, soon lost under the canopy of the trees.

It was quiet in the dense green of the wood, the sound of their horses’ hooves muffled. They rode quietly, each man deep in thought. Eventually Athos drew a deep breath.

“I apologise,” he said, stiffly proud. He looked back to both of them in turn, his eyes shrouded with pained remorse. “It was my carelessness that brought us here. It is inexcusable. I… shall ensure that Treville knows full well who is to blame for it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about the papers?” Porthos asked as Aramis looked away, trying to mask his guilt.

“I…” Athos clenched his jaw, “I thought the fewer people who knew about them, the safer they would be.”

“Meaning you didn’t trust us,” Aramis snapped. He hadn’t meant to, but guilt was winding his stomach into knots and it had always been a failure of his to lash out at others in such times.

Athos did not deny it. The three settled back into an uncomfortable silence.

After a long pause, Aramis gathered his courage and spoke, dreading what was to come.

“Athos, I must tell you—”

A whining noise cut him off, and it was only instinct that saved him as he ducked, the arrow sailing harmlessly above his head.

A cry came up from all around them. Men rushed from the dense bushes either side of their trail, crowding forward with an assortment of weapons. The three drew their blades and pistols, Aramis shooting the closest man through the heart at nearly the same time his weapon was drawn. Had they been on foot they would have been at a disadvantage in numbers, but mounted they were on equal terms, using their horses to kick and defend as the bandits closed in.

Porthos swung his blade like a scythe, felling three men in one sweep. Aramis had dropped his first pistol and drawn his second, another man falling to his precise aim. Athos was a demon, seeming everywhere at once, his main blade and gauche singing as he cut down all comers.

Aramis was parrying a bandit’s blade when he heard Porthos give a warning shout. Too late he saw the archer, arrow aimed for his chest, no way to avoid it as occupied as he was with the swordsman. A moment before the shaft flew he felt a force barrel into him, seeing a black horse in his periphery as it knocked him and his mount aside. A shot rang out and the archer folded, Porthos flinging his now empty smoking pistol at his next and last opponent. Aramis righted himself in time to see Athos drive his blade into the throat of the swordsman who would have bested him, and then they were once again alone in the woods, save for the bodies of those who had fallen.

“Bloody bandits,” Porthos spat. “Stupid bastards. Who the hell attacks soldiers with rusty blades and hunting bows?”

“You’re hurt,” Aramis said numbly.

Athos looked down to his arm and shrugged. The arrow - the one meant for Aramis’s heart - had gouged a deep track in the man’s arm and it was bleeding freely.

“A flesh wound,” Athos said, pulling off his scarf and tying it in a makeshift bandage about the site. “Let’s move on, we’re wasting time.”

“That shot would have killed me,” Aramis said, still dazed. He kicked his horse forwards, trying to catch up with their leader. His sword still hung bloody in his hand. “It might have killed you.”

Athos grunted without comment.

Aramis shook himself. He took out a handkerchief and cleaned his blade, replacing it in its sheath before pressing forward once more.

“ _Why_?”

Athos blinked in honest confusion. “You are my sworn brother, Aramis. Though we may have our differences I shall always guard your back, as you would mine.”

Shame flooded through Aramis and he looked away, unable to meet the man's honest stare. He saw Porthos, who gave him a stern look and raised brow, but to his consternation the confession just would not pass his lips.

They rode on again in silence.

oOo

The doorman to the Durand’s manor had clearly been expecting someone else when he answered to their frantic knocking.

Before Athos could begin to explain himself a voice called out from within.

“Is that the doctor? See him in at once!”

A man in finery hurried across the hallway to greet them, concern furrowing his brow. He startled when he saw them but recovered valiantly.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you this late hour?” his tone suggested that he would not be pleased if the matter wasn’t an urgent one. His eyes strayed to Athos’ bandaged arm and the blood that stained it.

“My apologies for the disturbance,” Athos said, but before he could continue Aramis interrupted.

“Is there someone in need of a physician?”

“My wife,” Durant said, his words betraying fear.

“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Aramis said.

“Aramis is a field medic for the musketeers,” Athos explained, “his skills are exemplary.”

Aramis shot the man a look of surprise. He had not known that Athos knew of his training as a field medic, but clearly their leader knew more about them than his arrogant aloofness let on. He had also expected Athos to protest the offer of help when their mission was in jeopardy, but it seemed he also felt duty bound to offer help where they could.

Durant’s face softened into relief. “My wife is in a delicate condition,” he explained. “She has been abed for near ten hours.”

Aramis remained calm. It would not do to alarm an expectant father, particularly to whom they already owed a favour. Labour was not one of his most practiced skills, but he had assisted in some few births when at the abbey for the local villagers.

“Take me to her,” he said in tones of authority that did not match the sudden thundering of his heart.

Durant instructed his butler to direct Aramis to his wife’s chambers and then, now much more relaxed and amenable, turned back to Athos.

“In what matter can I assist you, monsieur?”

As carefully as he could, Athos explained the mix up at the tavern.

Standing quietly beside him, Porthos was impressed with the diplomatic way in which Athos presented the facts, wording things in such as way as to suggest a simple misunderstanding, with no man at fault. Certainly, a proud noble such as Durant would likely have balked at any implication that _he_ was in the wrong, but might also have allowed pride to overcome him if he believed the musketeers had wronged _him_. Horse theft was a serious business and it had occurred to Porthos during their flight across the country that Aramis’ scheme was not so clever as he had first believed.

“My goodness, what a terrible misunderstanding,” said Durant when Athos was finished. “You have my sincerest apologies, monsieur, I shall have my man show you to the stables at once. I do hope it has not inconvenienced you.”

“Not at all,” Athos said with a tight smile.

oOo

It was some hours later. Porthos and Athos sat in a parlour, having bathed and eaten at their host’s insistence. The letters from the horse’s saddlebag were now safely inside Athos’ jerkin, having been mercifully undisturbed in the saddle bags. They both looked up when the door opened and Aramis entered, looking weary but triumphant.

“How fares the lady?” Athos asked.

“She and her daughter are quite well,” Aramis said, with no small amount of smugness. “Durant is with her.” His expression turned uncertain. “Do you have the papers?”

Athos’ hand instinctively touched his breast pocket and he nodded solemnly. “We shall rest here then make all haste to Provins,” he said. “We’ll be hard pressed to meet our contact in time but there’s no sense in leaving in the middle of the night when we are all worn out.”

“Let me see your arm,” Aramis said, glad when Athos shrugged his arm out of his shirt without complaint. The wound was not as deep as it had first appeared and was already beginning to scab, with no need for stitches as long as it was rested. Aramis washed it, careful not to dislodge the clots, and wrapped it with clean bandaging.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted.

Athos waved his uninjured arm dismissively. “I am the one at fault,” he said wearily, “let us all rest now, I want us to leave before dawn.”

oOo

Two days of hard riding, cutting across country and resting the horses only when necessary, saw them in Provins at the appointed hour. They were saddle-sore and filthy, tempers frayed to breaking point. Athos had relapsed into his surly disposition, speaking only when necessary and then only to give orders. Aramis too was in foul temper, guilt gnawing at him, and Porthos was fed up with dealing with him.

“You don’t gotta tell him,” he said in frustration when the man's brooding had reached a stormcloud level.

Aramis shot his brother a scathing glare. “Porthos… I must.”

They were several miles from Provins. The blasted letters in the hands of their contact. Taking the road to Paris would have them returned to the garrison by that next evening, no later and none the wiser for their misadventure.

“I cannot let him continue this self-flagellation,” Aramis added sourly.

“Well if you’re goin’t do it then bloody get on with it."

Aramis made a rude gesture but kicked his horse forward all the same, not stopping until he came level with Athos’ gelding.

“I must speak with you,” he began.

“We have many miles to go before we reach Paris,” Athos said gruffly. “It can wait.”

Aramis caught the man’s arm, forcing him to turn to face him. “No, it cannot.”

Athos glared at him stubbornly but then heaved a put-upon sigh. “Get on with it, then.”

“I—” Aramis paused, staring at the man’s carefully emotionless face, “—you know!”

“What’s that?” Porthos asked, kicking his horse closer into earshot.

“Look at him, he knows, damn him!” Aramis gestured wildly.

Porthos shot Athos a suspicious look and then blinked in surprise. “Bugger me.”

“Of course I know. It was simple enough to deduce,” Athos said calmly.

Aramis gaped at him, unable to summon words. “You’re not angry?” he asked eventually.

“I’m furious,” Athos said, not looking furious at all. “But it was my error, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Bugger that!” Aramis snapped in uncharacteristic crudeness. “You had me stewing these past three days. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t _you_?” Athos countered, his jaw jutting out obstinately, raising a brow as the Spaniard sputtered a non-answer.

"The matter is settled, and we shall speak no more about it,” said Athos sternly. “I trust that neither of you see harm in omitting our misadventure from my reports?”

Not waiting for a reply, Athos kicked his horse forwards once more leaving Porthos and Aramis to sit gawping behind him.

“I truly _hate_ that man,” said Aramis.


	3. Chapter 3

“You three, my office.”

Aramis winced at the words, snapped by Treville in a manner that promised someone was in for a long and painful lecture.

“He knows,” he hissed to Porthos as they quickly dismounted.

“How can he know?” Porthos countered, “We ain’t been back in Paris five minutes.”

Athos said nothing, simply passing his horse to the stablehand and heading for the stairs.

Treville watched them carefully as the three lined up before him, simply sitting and waiting in silence. When this had gone on for an uncomfortably long time, he broke into a tight smile.

“Well, aren’t you going to report on the mission?”

Athos opened his mouth but a few moments passed before he managed to summon his words. “It was a success, sir,” he hedged.

“A full report, if you please.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a sidelong look. This was very definitely a trap, but what could they do? Aramis wondered if Athos would try and blame everything on him, or just the bits that were, admittedly, perhaps partially his fault. He stood as still as stone, and listened as Athos gave an extremely truncated version of events. There was a suggestion that they had needed to alter their original course, but for trivial matters that did not warrant going into further detail. Athos was truly a master of subversion. Aramis was almost impressed. It was a risk, but truly, what evidence could Treville possibly have to incriminate them?

When Athos was done, their Captain sat back in his chair with a deep and weary sigh. He gazed at each of them in turn with hard eyes. Aramis felt like a recruit once more, chastened by the man's imposing presence. No matter how long he lived as a musketeer it seemed that Treville could reduce them all to a state of cowering novices. He felt the near-overwhelming urge to smile brightly, to assure the Captain that all was well and wouldn't he like to dismiss them, please? Instead he remained strong, though becoming less confident in their innocence with each passing moment.

Treville shifted. He picked up a folded paper from the table, donning a pair of spectacles so that he could read.

“I received this letter yesterday. It is thanks from a man named Durant for the Musketeers' aid in saving his wife and child,” he began sternly. “You are mentioned by name, Aramis, which is strange seeing as you should not have been anywhere near Durant’s estate at the time.”

There was feigned surprise but no question in the Captain’s tone, so Aramis remained silent, fidgeting minutely in his stance. Sweat had broken out on his brow and his stomach had joined his boots, rooted to the floor by the Captain's stare.

“Durant also wishes to convey his sincere apologies for his part in the trouble you found yourselves in,” Treville went on coolly, “and hopes that your horse, Athos, is none the worse for its adventures.”

Treville carefully set the letter down and removed his spectacles, holding them in both hands as he gave Athos a politely questioning look. “Perhaps you’d like to try that report again, soldier.”

Athos, who had grown more uncomfortable throughout the exchange, wet his lips. “There was a… misunderstanding,” he began carefully.

“Oh sod this,” Aramis snarled. “I swapped his horse, sir, in jest,” he told the Captain. “By the time Athos noticed, his own horse had been taken by Durant and we had to go to his manor to fetch it back. That is all.”

“And why,” Treville said, his tone suspiciously light, “did Athos take so long to discover this deception?”

Aramis opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again.

 _Oh, shit_.

“I was... unwell,” Athos said, his tone carefully neutral. When Treville’s expression indicated that this explanation was insufficient, he continued, “I had taken deep into my cups the past night.”

“You were drunk,” said Treville bluntly, rage sparking in his narrowed eyes. He glared at Aramis and Porthos. “I suppose you two were the same?”

“They remained sober enough,” Athos said, cutting across any protest they might have voiced.

“—but I encouraged him,” Aramis said quickly.

“ _We_ encouraged him,” corrected Porthos.

“In order to enact your “jest”, no doubt,” said Treville, with biting sarcasm. “What I do not understand is why you jeopardised the mission to retrieve the beast, when you could have waited until after the meeting at Provins to correct the mistake.”

Athos cleared his throat. “The letters were in the saddlebag, sir.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

“You knew this?” Treville asked Aramis, his body stiff with anger.

Aramis shook his head but it was Athos who answered.

“I had not briefed Aramis or Porthos on the mission, sir.”

Treville stared at the man in clear disbelief for a long, awkward moment. Then he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, fixing Athos with a diamond-hard glare.

“So that I have this correct... As leader of this mission, you neglected to brief your subordinates in the vital nature of their task, leaving them unprepared for the dangers that they might have faced. You proceeded get blind drunk, _whilst still on duty_ , rendering you incapable of recognising a quite frankly glaring exchange – since any man in full possession of his faculties would have noticed within the first minute of riding a stranger’s horse. I AM NOT DONE,” Treville barked, shutting down Aramis as the man tried to interject. “Not only this, but your actions then dragged you and your men into unnecessary danger, resulting in your injury, and then only barely avoided embarrassment or perhaps arrest had the noble not been so accommodating.” Treville huffed at the end of his damning summary. “It is only thanks to God that you made the meeting in time,” he rumbled. “If you had not I dread to think what may have happened. I might not have been able to keep you three from a hangman’s noose.”

Aramis gulped back his horror at that. Hearing everything laid out had done nothing to ease his guilt, but the way that the Captain was talking it was as if Athos was the only one to blame.

“I accept full responsibility,” Athos said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Sir, if I may,” Aramis said deferentially, and breathed easy when the Captain gave a tight nod. “This would not have happened if I had not urged Athos to drink and then swapped his horse. The fault is mine.”

“Me too,” Porthos added.

“Would you have done so if I had told you the true reason for our mission, as I should?” Athos asked them bluntly. Aramis was surprised, there was a calm sort of patience to the man now, a nobility of spirit he hadn’t seen before.

“Of course, I wouldn’t,” he scoffed.

“And would you have planned it at all, if I had been less of a miserable git these past few days?”

“Days?” Porthos rumbled cheekily and the three shared a quick smirk of shared good humour. Aramis silently thanked his friend; the tension had nearly become unbearable.

“Enough, gentlemen,” Treville said, bringing the three back to ground. “There’s no doubt that you all are to blame for this fiasco, but you, Athos, take the lion’s share. I think you know how I must respond so I’ll ask you: All for one, or one for all?”

Athos sobered and straightened, his head rising proudly despite the tinge of a blush that was rising on his cheeks. “All for one, sir.”

Treville looked pleased if not a little surprised. “You’re certain?”

“The fault was mine, and mine alone, sir.”

Aramis was about to ask what they meant, though he had a sneaking suspicion, confirmed when Treville next spoke.

“Then bare yourself and lean against the wall.”

Athos’s eyes flickered briefly to the others, his face flushing a dark hue with shame, but he acquiesced without a word, his hands going to the laces of his breeches.

“Sir!” Aramis protested. “You cannot be serious!”

“It ain’t right, sir,” Porthos added, his brow creased in consternation.

Treville silenced them with a glare. “I could forgive many of your sins of this past week,” he said, indicating with a hand to Durant’s letter, “in part because of the good that also came of it. But if nothing else, Athos was drunk whilst on duty. By rights I should have him publicly flogged. Would you prefer I changed my mind?”

Aramis could not disagree, but still ground his teeth together at this injustice.

“I should also face punishment,” he said.

Treville shook his head. “That was not your choice to make.”

“All for…” Porthos muttered. “You means he’s gonna take our—?”

“As leader of this debacle that was his choice,” said Treville with a firm nod.

Aramis fixed Treville with a solemn frown. “He saved my _life_ , sir,” he said in a hushed, accusatory tone.

Treville gave a brief smile. “Of course he did; you are brothers.”

During this time Athos had finished unlacing and was about to turn for the wall when he was stopped by Aramis’s hand on his arm.

“Aramis...” Treville warned.

“I understand, sir,” Aramis said miserably. “But Athos is injured. He will struggle to maintain such a position.” He avoided Athos’s chagrined eye, knowing the man would not thank him for his interference.

Treville nodded in understanding. “Over my desk then,” he said, “I won’t have you injured any more than you already have been.”

The irony of that statement was not lost on the three, two of whom watched as the Captain crossed to his armoire and retrieved a martinet; whilst the third, flushed to the tips of his ears with shame, bent over the Captain’s desk.

Treville placed the rod upon the table beside Athos and removed his jacket before rolling up his shirtsleeves. Aramis fought back a pained sound, knowing that the man did not plan to go easy on their leader.

“Since you feel in some way left out, Aramis, you may count,” Treville said as he took up the martinet and shook out its tails.

Aramis stiffened in indignation, only holding his tongue thanks to Porthos’s hand landing upon his shoulder, and squeezing hard enough to ease the knot there.

“The count is thirty.”

From where they stood they could not see Athos’s face, or his reaction to the first swing. His body did not betray him, save for the stiffening of his legs. The sound was horrible in the silence, ten strips of leather catching bare skin, leaving fiery trails in their wake.

Aramis’s voice caught in his throat but he still managed a croaked, “One”, as the tails rose again.

The first dozen strokes passed in a blur, Treville keeping an easy pace that enabled the fullness of the blow to register with them all before the next landed. Athos said not a word, barely moved, his breath even despite what Aramis knew from sorry experience was a hideous feeling. The way the leather wrapped about every curve of the flesh, the edges welting thin lines that throbbed and burned with every rapid heartbeat; the heady sound of the tails buzzing through the air, preempting an instinctive clench of abused muscles; the way it ripped breath from you and filled your head with nothing but pain and dreadful anticipation. He would not wish it on any man.

Yet Athos made no sound.

Aramis watched in horror and rising respect as they neared the half way mark. A pompous aristocrat had no right to fare so well under such conditions!

Belatedly he realised Treville was looking right at him, a squeeze on his shoulder prompting him.

“Fourteen,” he said hurriedly.

Treville frowned and the hand tightened it's grip.

“Thirteen, sir! I meant—" Aramis gaped, mortified at his mistake. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said, hanging his head in shame.

Treville was silent of a while, and though Aramis knew he was still watching him, he could not bring himself to meet his eye. The Captain was not an unreasonable man, but he still prayed that he would not punish Athos unfairly for his mistake.

“Go to his head, Aramis,” Treville ordered, his words gruff but not unkind. “Porthos, you take over the count.”

Aramis hurried to obey, unsure as to what he was meant to be doing until he reached the far side of the desk, where his gaze was inevitably dragged to Athos’s face.

The man’s eyes were pressed tightly closed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His hands, where they gripped the table edge, were white with strain, his whole body wound as tight as a crossbow.

Aramis’s heart melted and he huffed out a quick, good-natured sigh at the man’s stubborn nature, so alike his own. So he did as he would have liked in similar circumstances and clasped Athos’s wrist in his hand, the other pressed against the man’s head. Crouching down level to his face, he gave the eyes which had opened in surprise a cheery, yet damp smile.

Shocked as he initially was, Athos’s face softened and a matching quirk of his lip gave Aramis all the encouragement he needed to slowly knead at the man’s hair.

“Almost half-way,” he encouraged softly, “you can bear this, mon amis.”

Leather cracked down and the smile turned to a grimace, but Aramis did not stop, whispering encouragement now and then at a particularly painful looking blow.

After a dozen more strokes, Athos suddenly released his grip of the table, to instead tightly grasp Aramis's hand. He ducked his face from view, forehead pressed against the table, shining with sweat. In this manner he bore the last half dozen strokes, and remained afterwards, breathing heavily into the woodwork but having made no sound at all.

Aramis heard Treville crossing the room and hiding the martinet away in the armoire, but did not move until the man gave them leave. He crossed the table quickly, in case Athos had need of assistance to stand, but the man had already risen before he made it back to his side, pulling his breeches and smalls back into place with barely a grimace. His eyes were glassy but his cheeks were dry, hardly a tremble to betray his punishment. Aramis felt an odd, detached sense of pride well up within him.

They stood to attention in a line again, waiting for whatever else the Captain might have in store for them.

Aramis was surprised when Treville stopped pacing before them to hand him a handkerchief, but not as surprised as he was to find that he had tears upon his own cheeks. Quickly he wiped them away and handed back the cloth with an embarrassed murmur of thanks.

“I consider this matter ended,” Treville said. “I want to hear no more about it. You are all dismissed. Athos, report to the infirmary for your injury, then remain in your quarters until morning muster.”

Athos gave a tight salute, his voice hoarse as he managed a gruff, “Yes, sir.”

Porthos and Aramis repeated the salute and then all three filed out of the room as hurriedly as was polite.

Athos immediately began to make his way to the infirmary but Porthos stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You all right?” he asked, his dark eyes shrouded with true concern.

Of course, he didn’t mean to ask how the man was, which was self evident, but Athos took the question as it was meant and gave a forgiving nod. He clasped the big man’s arm in his in a clear sign of brotherhood and then extended that hand to Aramis.

Aramis took a steadying breath and took the arm, tugging the man into a bear hug. He held tightly, his breath stuttered with emotion, worsened when he heard Athos whisper:

“It is forgiven, my friend. Please think no more of it.”

Nodding wordlessly, Aramis broke the embrace and watched with sad eyes as the musketeer walked away.

oOo

As Aramis ended his tale he became aware that one member of his audience was glaring at him ferociously.

“That’s it?” d’Artagnan demanded.

“Well yes,” Aramis said, a touch confused. “That was the story of how we first met and how dearest Athos received his first taste of Treville’s ire.”

“And you just _left_ him?” d’Artagnan said, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

Aramis blinked and then gave a guffawing laugh. “Of course not, you great ninny. Porthos and I raided the pantries that evening and brought our brave leader many victuals to soothe his wounded… _pride_ ,” he finished with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Porthos snorted from his place at the table whilst, upon the chair by the fireside, Athos gave a groan and shielded his eyes with a hand.

“I knew I should have told the story,” he said.

“My dear Athos, I believe I told the tale quite well,” Aramis said, a hand over his offended heart.

“You told _a_ tale,” Athos conceded, “as far as accuracy goes…”

“So I embellished just a little,” Aramis said with a dismissive wave, “the important thing is that our dear Gascon was suitably entertained so that his own discomfort might be forgotten.”

D’Artagnan gave a grimace and shifted upon the cot, where he lay upon his side, head resting upon the Spaniard’s shoulder.

“Thank you for reminding me,” he said, squinting up at the man through his red-rimmed eyes.

“The Captain has quite a swing, no?” Aramis said with a chuckle as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

To d’Artagnan’s amazement it was not just he and Athos who murmured their agreement and he gazed at Porthos with wide eyes.

“Porthos, don’t tell me you—“

“Oh no, that’s another story for another day,” Porthos said with a shake of his head, holding up his hands like a shield before him. Athos and Aramis both chuckled at what was likely a fond memory, and took another drink from their cups.

“Anyway, Aramis hasn’t finished telling this one yet,” Porthos said, grinning slyly at his friend.

Aramis shifted in discomfort. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, beginning to rise from the bed, “Besides, it’s getting late and I for one am not restricted to barracks this night. There is a new tavern I have been meaning to try…”

“You said we would visit there together!” d’Artagnan said in a petulant tone.

“You should have thought of that before you fell into the Captain’s bad graces,” Aramis said loftily.

“Aramiiiis!”

“Oh, very well,” Aramis said, allowing the boy to pull him back down into position as his pillow. “Perhaps I can be persuaded to stay for a little while longer.”

“I for one am interested in hearing the rest of this tale, as Porthos suggested,” Athos said with humour, “I wasn’t aware there was more.”

“He is quite mistaken,” Aramis said curtly. “Besides which I haven’t even been thanked for what I have already told so if you think I’m saying one more word you are all sorely mistaken.”

He made to leave once more but d’Artagnan pushed himself up on one arm and grasped his shirtsleeve pleadingly. “I’m sorry, ‘mis. It was a fine story, please don’t be cross.”

“Well,” Aramis preened, settling back down, “I suppose that’s all right then.”

“So, what happened was—“ Porthos began.

“Porthos!” Aramis objected.

“Let him speak,” Athos said lightly.

“Athos!” the Spaniard whined. “Have pity.”

“After listening to a tale of my own thrashing this past hour?” Athos snorted, taking another draught of wine. “Please continue, my friend,” he said to Porthos.

“Don’t worry, ‘mis,” d’Artagnan said to his forlorn human pillow as he settled his head upon the man’s lap, “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

Aramis gave a roll of his eyes but then smiled down fondly at the whelp, stroking a hand through the boy’s hair. It was not all that bad, he supposed. But for a painted horse things could have been a lot different.


	4. Chapter 4

_Epilogue_

The door closed behind the pair as Porthos and Aramis left the barrack room of their newly sworn friend. Athos had been grateful for the company, admitting them into his chambers with little fuss after they had boisterously insisted, bringing with them half the pantry and a quite fine bottle of wine. Just one bottle, however; they had learned their lesson as far as _that_ was concerned.

The man had been content to listen to the pair as they joked and slandered their way through a dozen scandals, and the gossip of the garrison and surrounding neighbourhoods. Aramis had recounted his last encounter with a none-too-happy paramour’s spouse and Porthos had described in great detail his last run-in with a red guard of particularly odious nature. They had even coaxed a chuckle or two out of their stoic new partner in crime, and by the time they took their leave they had grown into firm friends.

Aramis continued to chatter, though quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping garrison as they passed through the halls. Porthos let him, responding at appropriate moments but not needing to do more than that. He reached his barrack room door and entered, the Spaniard close behind, shutting it behind them. He stripped of his outer tunic and belt, his hat and weapons laid out on his clothes chest for the morning. Aramis, too, had removed his hat and weapons but was now dithering, his chatter ebbing to a hesitant halt.

Porthos watched the man for a while as Aramis feigned interest in practically anything but Porthos, then he broke into a smile.

Taking his brother’s hand, Porthos led him to the bed and sat, looking up at him with expectant patience.

Aramis’s cheer was now crystalline: transparent and fragile to the touch. Their gaze finally met and his careful mask wavered, eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

Falling to his knees beside him, Aramis thrust his hands forward to clutch at Porthos’s shirt, burying his face into the folds. His breath came in stuttered gasps, his body shaking with suppressed emotion.

“Aw, ‘mis,” Porthos said with fondness, one hand patting the top of his head. After a moment it moved down to the back of his neck, squeezing a little as his thumb rubbed at the hairline.

“C’mon, brother,” he said, his other hand coming to lift under Aramis’s armpit, “let ol’ Porthos take care’a you.”

Aramis gave a shuddered sob but didn’t resist as Porthos lifted and guided him over his knee, until his torso rested upon the cot and his legs hung down between Porthos’s own.

He didn’t remove Aramis’s breeches. He didn’t need to.

“Remember,” he said in a soothing, yet stern voice. “Treville said it was over, so I’m just givin’ you somethin’ to think about, right?”

Aramis did not reply, squirming on the cot as he fought for control. A searing swat to the seat of his breeches had him gasping and squeaking out a hasty, “yes, Porthos!”

“Right.” Porthos set to with an enthusiasm and vigour that drove every miserable thought from Aramis’s mind. Every blow from his friend’s hand felt like a paddle to his naked backside. He had never done something to earn a bare thrashing from Porthos but even the thought of it had his guts turning to ice.

It took very little time at all before Aramis was wailing into the coverlets, beyond hope that his cries would not be heard by those abed nearby. Thankfully this thing between them was not such a rare occurrence that Porthos's neighbours would be startled by it, usually prompting no more than an amused glance or two at breakfast the morning after. Aramis had never been good at letting go of his guilt.

“Why’re we here, Aramis?” Porthos grunted after a while. He slapped down again when the man below him made no effort to respond beyond a broken keen.

“I— ah! I was cruel!” Aramis cried, “I led my brothers to folly and could have had us all killed! Ah— Ath— Athos was hurt because of me, he was hurt very badly.”

“I’d say his pride was hurt more,” Porthos said with a wry twist to his lips, “an’ that might be no bad thing. Took him down a peg... But what about me then? Don’t I deserve a thrashin’ too?”

Aramis shook his head vigorously into the coverlet, fists bunched around the cloth. “Wasn’t your… was my fault… I— I…”

“I’ve not got my own will to decide what to do, then?”

Aramis stuttered at that. “Of— AH!— of _course_ …”

“Athos could’a chose not to drink with us,” Porthos reminded his friend sternly, “Athos could’a chose to tell us about the papers.” He laid down several more swats. “What did Treville say, eh? We’re all to blame for this. Don’t you take on my sins as well as yours.”

“Can’t… cant help…”

Porthos quirked another smile, his blows lightening just a little. “I know, mate. So just you let me sort that out for ya.”

“Aaaaaargghhh!”

Porthos stopped when sweat began to bead his brow, and Aramis’s wails had turned to miserable sobs, his body limp and compliant against the onslaught. Though he had surely been in no condition to count the blows, Aramis might have been pleased to know that Porthos had given him no less than what Athos himself had earned.

He stroked the Spaniard’s back in soothing circles, taking the opportunity whist the man was prone to unlace and remove his boots.

After a long while, Aramis stirred from his position with a pained hiss. Porthos took this as his cue and stood, Aramis scooped in his arms, to deposit him back onto the bed. Though he might not find sleeping in his breeches particularly comfortable, it would likely be worse to remove them now, and also negated the necessity of replacing them the next morning, once the ache had truly set in.

“My thanks, brother,” Aramis murmured from his pillow.

Porthos chuckled and settled himself down next to his friend, not at all surprised when Aramis draped an arm over his torso and pressed closer to his side for comfort. “Yer worth it, mate.”

Aramis lay still for a long while. Porthos could practically hear the cogs of his mind working.

“I feel terribly for Athos,” he mumbled.

“Oh?" said Porthos with a grin, "Thought you hated him?”

Aramis grumbled into the bedding and then shot his friend a one-eyed glare, the other still closed against the soreness of his weeping.

“Perhaps I was… somewhat hasty in my conclusions,” he conceded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind and encouraging comments! There are a few more stories left in the Bonds universe but suggestions are always welcome! T x


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